Words
by anahita
Summary: Black ink staining pale skin in recognizable patterns; YukixShuichi


Disclaimer: I don't own Gravitation  
Warnings/Keywords: m/m, YukixShu, tasteful eroticism, sexual innuendo

Words  
by Anahita (tsuzuki @ sluttyukes.com)

~

_'When God made the first clay model of a human being, he painted the eyes, the lips, and the sex.  
And then He painted in each person's name lest the person should ever forget it. If God approved of His creation, he breathed the painted clay-model into life by signing His own name.' _

From _The Pillow Book _(1996)

~

The writer dipped the thin paintbrush into the bottle of ink which sat on the supple flesh of his canvas's backside. Wiping away the excess liquid to avoid having any fluid splatter or stain his perfectly clean, unblemished writing surface, he then gently placed the wet tip of it against the warm skin of the body that was lying on his bed, completely unclothed save a red satin scarf that served as a makeshift blindfold to prevent him from trying to cheat at their little game. 

The shock from the cold, damp paintbrush moving in deliberate strokes along his back and shoulder blades made him squirm and giggle.

"Stop that!" The writer said, chastising his flesh-paper for his inappropriate behavior by lightly smacking his upper thighs, dangerously close to the uncapped bottle of ink. "If you knock that over and make a mess on my bed, I'll kill you." He warned.

"Sorry, Yuki. It tickles but I'll try harder to remain still."

"You had better." The writer continued, this time without any interruptions. Black ink stained pale skin in recognizable patterns and a few moments later he finished writing and pulled away. "What does that say?" He asked.

"Easy. 'nuisance'. You always write that first." Came the answer.

"I was just making sure that you're paying attention, and now for the next one." Once again, the writer dipped the brush into the ink and began to work on painting another word on flesh, this time down the knobby column of back bone. "What does that say?" He asked.

The one being written on was quiet for a moment. "Horse?" He answered, randomly blurting out the first word that came to mind.

"You dumbass! You're not supposed to guess! You have to think of relevant words."

"Clue, please."

"It's what got you all shitfaced and caused you to vomit all over your bandmate's shoes at the NG party last month."

"Oh! Jack Daniels!"

"Close enough. The answer was 'whiskey'." He scribbled a third word near the base of the spine. "Guess."

"I can't tell. Give me a hint."

"It's long and pink and you eat it."

"Yuki you PERVERT!"

"Get your mind out of the gutter you idiot! That strawberry candy you like so much!"

"Pocky?"

"Good Job!" The next word was drawn on a bit lower than the last one, at the tip of the tailbone.

"Eiri." The canvas spoke with a smile, answering before the writer had a chance to prompt him.

"You're getting good." Eiri replenished the ink on the brush and took hold of his lover's left hand, turned it palm side up and wrote the next word, "Well?"

There was no answer. He didn't even ask for a hint.

"Oh come on! You never have any trouble saying it any other time." The writer pressed, knowing full well that the word was recognized.

"Love." He finally answered, correctly.

"Excellent. Last word." The writer inscribed the final word on the back of his lover's right thigh, right along a light brown triangular-shaped birthmark that decorated it. "What does it say?" He asked, putting the brush aside and replacing the cap onto the bottle of ink. As soon as it was removed, the body below him moved, the skin and the muscles beneath them shifted, causing those words that were written upon him to come to life and dance alongside the flickering shadows cast by the candles that illuminated the room.

The one lying on the bed opened his eyes and turned his head to one side. Through the obstructed view from the densely packed fibers of the blindfold, he was able to look in the mirror that hung on the wall across from the bed and make out their outlines on the bed, he was lying down, the writer was straddling his legs. He couldn't recall a time when he did not see both of them reflected in that mirror.

"What does it say, Shuichi?" The writer asked, breathing hotly into ear of his friend, lover, and muse - the one who would breathe life into his insignificant little words..

"Shuichi." He answered, echoing his own name.

Fin.


End file.
